Everybody Loves Clyde
by 2DLou
Summary: A series of short fan fictions featuring - in big and small ways - everyone's favorite tortoise. Fluff so far, but maybe more serious later.
1. A Song for You

**A Song for You**

"Admit it." Straddling across Sherlock's waist, Joan had one hand on his chest, and the other hand around a more sensitive part of his anatomy. Sherlock's wrists were fastened to the headboard with a belt.

Sherlock struggled, but not that much. "No."

Joan tightened her grip a bit more, and moved her face closer to his. "Say it."

Sherlock turned his head from side to side, like a child not wanting to be fed. "I will not."

She gave him a fierce kiss on the mouth. "Say it."

Holding her mouth as long as she would let him, he finally released her. "I said no."

"Say it. Or I'll stop doing it," she threatened, her hand slowly moving up and down his shaft.

Sherlock tried in vain to resist thrusting his body in response to her gestures, digging his heels into the mattress to gain better leverage. "I said no," he grunted.

"Just once." Her voice softened as she moved to whisper in his ear. "Tell me. I've heard a little bit of it already anyway."

Sherlock quickly angled his head to get another taste of her mouth. "No." He rattled the headboard for emphasis.

Joan released her grip on Sherlock and sat up straight, crossing her arms across her bare chest. Time to take another tack. "Please….?"

"Joan…" Sherlock began to shift his body in silent encouragement for her to continue her attentions.

"Pretty please…?" Joan pouted.

"Joan…I haven't told anyone. Ever."

"With sugar on top?" Joan purred, slightly stirring on his torso. "Literally. I will put sugar on top." She drew out each word and feathered her fingertips across Sherlock's chest.

They spent a full thirty seconds in a silent stalemate. Joan's frame slightly rose and fell to the rhythm of Sherlock's breathing. Joan's desire ultimately betrayed her, however, as she couldn't resist reaching for Sherlock one more time. Sherlock's response evidenced a mutual lack of bodily fidelity.

"I'm waiting…," Joan lured. Her eyes silently pleaded with Sherlock to give in so that their encounter could continue in a different configuration.

Sherlock paused. "What about a show of good faith?"

Joan looked quizzically at Sherlock. "What do you mean?"

"A little _quid pro quo_. You do something for me, I'll do something for you."

"What do you want?" asked Joan, intrigued but wary.

"World peace. A dictionary to decode the Voynich Manuscript." Joan nudged Sherlock in the side with her knee. "Unbind my wrists."

"Uh uh uh," she said, wagging her index finger. "You'll overpower me and you'll never tell me what I want to hear."

"Trust is the cornerstone of every relationship," Sherlock said seductively. He didn't want to spoil the game by telling her that he could have overpowered her from the start, if he had so wished.

Joan paused for a moment, then reached up to unfasten the belt holding Sherlock's wrists to the headboard. Sherlock could almost lift his head to taste Joan's breast. Upon release, he quickly grasped Joan's head in his hands and assaulted her mouth.

"That was nice," gasped Joan, after she caught her breath. "But I'm still waiting. Are you or are you not a man of your word?"

Sherlock sat up on his elbows. Quickly rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he conceded. "Fine….When I'm alone in the brownstone….I sing…."

"All of it….," Joan insisted, stifling a giggle.

"Come on…," Sherlock grumbled, yet taking great satisfaction in the girlish expression on Joan's face.

"What do you sing?" Joan asked, moving to lift herself off of Sherlock's body as proof of her willingness to keep her word.

Sherlock grabbed her legs to keep him on top of her. "Do not make me say it."

"One last chance. You scratch my back….I'll let you do whatever you want with my front."

Sherlock lay back and raised his arms over his head in mock defeat. He elicited a deep sigh. "Okay. When I'm alone…..I sing…. to Clyde ….Celine Dion's 'My Heart Will Go On.'"

With that, Joan burst into laughter, collapsing against Sherlock's body. "Thank you! Thank you!"

"I hope you're happy," said Sherlock, grudgingly. "Neither Clyde nor I will ever be able to look you in the eye again."

"I am." Her laughter choked Joan's response. "I am. Your and Clyde's secret is safe with me." She nuzzled her face into Sherlock's neck. "You know what you are?"

"Don't…..," implored Sherlock. "Don't make me say it."

Joan reached down Sherlock's body and reminded Sherlock that he was no match for her powers of persuasion.

"Do you know what you are?" she repeated, lightly nibbling below his ear.

"I am king of the world," intoned Sherlock, trying to keep a tone of pleasure out of his voice. Soon, however, his laughing joined hers, and the peals of enjoyment echoed out of Joan's bedroom, down the stairs, over Clyde's tank, and out through the brownstone into the city beyond.


	2. Clyde and Seek

**Clyde and Seek**

Standing in the middle of the living room, Joan waited quizzically for Sherlock to re-enter the room. "You hide eggs on Easter, Sherlock, not tortoises."

"We're not engaging in some centuries-old tradition, Watson," he said, as he walked briskly back into the room. "This is to hone your investigative skills. It's just a coincidence that today is Easter."

"Still. Isn't it a little…. stu-, dangerous?"

"Clyde will be perfectly safe, I assure you." Sherlock was rocking quickly back and forth on his feet, excited for his training to begin.

"So tell me again what is it I'm supposed to do?"

"Somewhere in our flat I have hidden Clyde. It is your job to find him." Sherlock nodded his head to punctuate his statement.

"Do I get any hints?" Joan began to slowly look around the room, not sure where to begin.

"Would you get any hints if this were a murder investigation?"

"There would be clues, sure. And this isn't a murder investigation. It's a search for a tortoise." She tried to keep her eye-rolling hidden from Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock found it preposterous that, after months of guidance, Joan still doubted his methods. Even those that were less than orthodox. "If you cannot find a tortoise, how do you expect to find a shell casing ejected into grass in the middle of the night? Or a droplet of blood that has fallen on the ground? Or a tossed murder weapon in some brush?"

"That's what crime scene investigators are for. And shell casings can't walk away from the scene," Joan mocked.

"You are procrastinating." Sherlock quickly rotated his body to scan the room one final time.

Sighing in resignation, Joan asked, "So how much time do I have?"

"You have a half hour. But if it takes you longer than 15 minutes," Sherlock frowned, "I will have to seriously re-evaluate my decision to make you my partner."

"Fifteen minutes to find a tortoise in an 1800 sq. ft. brownstone?" Joan asked incredulously.

"Your 'crime scene' is only this main floor. Better?"

"Much," Joan sneered.

"Outstanding." Sherlock set the timer on his watch. "You may begin."

Joan slowly walked around the circumference of the living room, not touching anything, but scanning the bookshelves and peering underneath and behind the furniture. She began to move the books, vessels, and other bric-a-brac on the shelves, careful not to disturb the order that Mrs. Hudson had created. Nothing. She gave a quick visual inspection of the mantel, checking under the lampshade and behind Angus, the phrenology bust. Again, nothing. Her focus was then drawn to the small fire burning in the fireplace.

"You wouldn't…..," she started, warily.

"You wound me, Joan. That you would think so little of me…."

"Well…..," wavered Joan.

"I told you that Clyde is safe. Therefore, he cannot be in the fireplace."

"You want me to be thorough, I assume," she defended herself. She soon thought better of this room as the location for where Sherlock would have hidden Clyde, and walked into the adjoining room. The numerous piles of papers and boxes of files stacked on top of each other would offer great camouflage, Joan surmised. With Sherlock closely shadowing her, Joan moved a few boxes around, emptying the contents of one or two onto the floor. Still nothing. "Since I'm on the clock, of course you'll be straightening that up," Joan said, relishing the opportunity to assert her authority over Sherlock as much as he often enjoyed lording his professional expertise over her.

Having no luck, she moved over to the computers, looking behind the monitors and opening printer drawers. She absentmindedly flipped through some books, and looked into the teapot that had been left on the table. She even opened the antique snuff box that had yet to be returned to the museum once the investigation that it was pivotal to had closed. Nothing yet again. Swiping her hand across the table, she knocked magazines onto the floor.

"You're losing focus, Watson," Sherlock chided, looking at his watch. "It hasn't even been 10 minutes yet. Maybe I should have limited the field to just one room?"

"My time isn't up yet," Joan snapped, a bit too abruptly.

"If I can't trust you to find a tortoise in a practice investigation, how can you expect someone to trust you enough to find evidence that could help solve an actual crime?" Sherlock hoped that Joan recognized the mockingly antagonizing tone in his voice. This assignment notwithstanding, he had the utmost respect for Joan's ability. In fact, this exercise was not intended to highlight Joan's faults or weaknesses at all. Quite the opposite. He enjoyed nothing more than being witness to Joan's excellent talents on display. The day's hunt for Clyde was simply Sherlock's way of injecting a little spontaneity and levity into their usually predictable professional relationship.

Joan smirked, all too familiar with Sherlock's bark-is-worse-than-bite demeanor. "You can trust me enough to kick your ass if you keep up that attitude," she returned in kind, tossing a pencil at him.

Having to duck the projectile allowed Sherlock to hide the smile that had formed on his face. That was the Joan that he knew and loved. Taking no nonsense from him, and able to give as good as she got. "Very good. Now channel that energy into finding Clyde. The clock is ticking," he concluded, tapping his wrist.

Giving up in this room as well, Joan felt at a loss as to where to go next. A quick walk-through of the foyer elicited no secreted creature. She placed her hand on the door knob.

"He's not outside," Sherlock, observing her from the club chair in the living room, informed her.

She returned to the first room. Sherlock remained in the chair, patiently waiting. She was approaching this all wrong, she ultimately decided, passing her hand through her hair. In poker parlance, she was playing the cards and not the man. Instead of looking for where _Clyde_ would be hiding, she should be thinking about where _Sherlock_ would have hidden Clyde. Obviously this wouldn't necessarily be how she would actually look for a bullet or a drop of blood, but "playing the man" would be an effective method to deducing where a suspect might have hidden money, or an important document, or a weapon. She turned to look at Sherlock.

"Yes?" Sherlock inquired, meeting her gaze with his own.

"Nothing," Joan said. "Just thinking."

"About how your fifteen minutes are almost up?" Sherlock could practically see the wheels turning in Joan's brain. Even as a young man, he was never one to fall for simply a pretty face. As an adult, he was even less inclined to be swayed by a woman's attractiveness. Not that he didn't appreciate beauty, of course. But the most powerful aphrodisiac for him – the most important human characteristic in general - had always been intelligence. Admiring her form and aptitude as he sat by the fire, Sherlock was tempted to call off the exercise and spend the rest of the afternoon showing Joan just how much he valued her intellect.

"No. About…" Just then it came to her. "I got it."

Slightly chagrined for neglecting the room in general, but also because, had she focused on Sherlock and not Clyde to being with, she would have figured it out sooner, she purposefully walked past Sherlock and towards the kitchen. Sherlock, grinning, followed close behind, fairly skipping.

She began to open the refrigerator, but opted for the stove instead. Empty. She quickly closed it and moved to the cabinets. She opened and closed several doors before opening the bottom one. First taking out a stock pot, she pulled the pot off the shelf and onto the counter. Removing the lid, she reached in and pulled out Clyde.

"Tortoise soup," she said wryly, turning around and offering the found pet to Sherlock.

Glancing at his watch, Sherlock congratulated Joan. "You found him just under the wire. You should be proud of yourself."

"You seem rather pleased yourself," she said, noting his smug expression. " And don't I technically still have fifteen more minutes?" she added, moving closer to Sherlock.

"I haven't hidden anything else," Sherlock rejoined, looking curiously at Joan.

Standing mere inches in front of Sherlock, Joan began to unbutton her shirt. "Maybe I'll hide something this time, and let you find it," she said suggestively. Giving him a quick kiss on the mouth, she then continued to walk past Sherlock and out of the kitchen.

Sherlock stood for a moment in the middle of the kitchen, waiting for what, he wasn't exactly sure. "You might want to put Clyde back in his tank," he heard from the stairs. "This will take longer than a half hour. Or I will have to re-evaluate making you _my_ partner."


	3. Bodies and Clyde

**Note: I wanted to see if I could write a scene using only dialogue. It's harder than I thought! I'm not sure how well this was executed. Also, I'm trying to go easy on the puns you can do with the name "Clyde." :)**

* * *

**Bodies and Clyde**

Are you sure he'll be okay?

He'll be fine, Joan.

Why did you want to bring him in here with us anyway?

I didn't. You did.

That's not how I remember the conversation.

I don't remember having a conversation about this.

What if he falls in?

He's a tortoise. He can swim.

Tortoises aren't used to being in water with lavender bath salts...Ohhhhh.

Neither am I...Do you like that?

Yes...Is the water too hot for you?

Say it.

I like it.

Good. Now, what about the water?

Is it too hot?

No, it's just right, Joan.

Maybe I should start calling you Goldilocks, instead of Sherlock?

Can I sleep in your bed?

I think you know the answer to that.

Can I eat your porridge?

Clever. I think you know the answer to that, too… Are you saying I'm a bear?

Only if I've woken you up too early...Could we add a little more hot water now?

If you're not comfortable, you don't have to stay. I won't mind. Just don't drip water all over the floor. Or on the candles.

Get out? And leave you here alone with Clyde?

You just said that he'd be fine.

I'm not worried about him...Is that gardenia, Watson?

You're more dangerous to me in this tub than he is…What?

Gardenia. I smell gardenia...I'm only more dangerous because Clyde doesn't have opposable thumbs.

But he can hold his breath under water longer than you can...It's my shampoo. Can we have one conversation at a time, please?

Holding one's breath under water is only half the skill, Joan. Not even the most important half.

What you lack in that half, you certainly more than make up for in the other.

You're too kind.

Could you scoot backward? Your knee is in my back.

That's not my knee.

Braggart. Do you like it?

My…? Your back? Exceptionally so.

No. The scent of gardenia...You like my back? Hey, what did you do that for?

You are the one that wanted to have only one conversation at a time. I was trying to get your attention.

You have it. Why do you like my back?

Your skin is like alabaster. Your spine is like braille under my fingertips. Your freckles...are... like...constellations.

I can't concentrate when you do that.

When I do what? This?

Yes.

How about when I do this?

No...

No?

I mean...No. I can't think straight when you do that.

What about when I do this?

That...too.

Should I do this?

Def- Definitely that.

Can I do this?

Please.

Say it again.

P- please...Sherlock...

Again.

Sherlock…Keep your mouth there.

Here?

Y-yes. Wait. Wait. Do you think he's staring at us?

He's just looking, Joan.

But he's looking _right_ at us. Do you think he knows what we're doing?

If he knows what we're doing, it'd be the first known case of tortoises understanding human behavior in tortoise – or human - history… May I say that you have quite skillful fingers, Ms. Watson.

Glad you noticed.

Hmmmm...You assumed that I had not?

Well, I don't have eyes in the back of my head. I didn't want to presume.

There. Is that a better indicator?

I would say so...Is the steam bad for Clyde?

Probably not. But if you are really worried, I will put him back in his tank.

But then you'd have to get out of the tub.

A few minutes ago you were telling me to get out of the tub.

I said you _could_ get out of the tub. And that was only if you weren't comfortable. You said you weren't comfortable.

Actually, _you_ said I wasn't comfortable.

I didn't say you weren't comfortable. _You_ did.

I said I wasn't used to being in lavender water, not that I wasn't comfortable.

Are you comfortable?

Yes, Joan.

Do you think Clyde is comfortable?

Hard to say. Would you be comfortable balancing on the edge of the tub, watching and listening to a couple…

You said he couldn't understand what we were doing!

I was joking just now. He can hear, Joan. And he can see. Obviously. He just doesn't attribute meaning to anything. Shall we stop?

And stay in the tub? That tickles.

We could stay in the tub. Or we could continue our activities elsewhere.

Elsewhere?

It's a big brownstone, Joan. Plenty of other flat surfaces.

The staircase isn't really a flat surface and that never stopped us.

Quite.

I'll get out of the tub as long as we don't have to stop.

We don't have to stop.

What will we do with Clyde?

Unless you prefer an audience, I will return him to his tank.

Do you think he will be mad?  
Joan…

Sorry. Yes. Put him back in his tank. Then we'll pick up where we left off?

If I can remember where that was.

Allow me to refresh your memory...Was it here?

Perhaps… But maybe we were here…

I...Ohhhh…I'm not sure.

Could we have been here?

That feels familiar…I thought we were going to get out of the tub?

We are. We have some things to finish up here, first, however…Clyde, you might want to avert your eyes for this part.


End file.
